Those Eyes
by GlassAngel
Summary: His sensitive ears were not designed to withstand the ordeal of dance clubs, but seeing the captain like this was worth the discomfort. K/S. M for language.


**A/N: Thanks to Sydni, who read this over for me! Also, reviews and reviewers will be loved forever. I'm experimenting with length here, so I'd love feedback. Rough Vulcan translations from the VLD are at the bottom.**

**Warnings: Swearing and mentions of roofies.**

**Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to a bunch of people who are not me.**

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**Those Eyes (That Blue)**

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His sensitive ears were not designed to withstand the ordeal of dance clubs. The music thudded at a volume well above his comfort threshold, and the resultant vibrations, while merely a tingle for the humans, hummed through his denser Vulcan body at a level dangerously close to pain. Spock only planned on staying for half an hour at the most, in order to fulfill his acceptance of the senior staff's invitation but spare his body prolonged physical stress. He would require meditation upon return to his assigned guest quarters in the main compound.

His sensitive ears were not designed to withstand the ordeal of dance clubs, but seeing the captain like this was worth the discomfort.

Even when off-duty and relaxing or playing chess, Jim wore the awareness that a minor crisis could pull him back to the captain's chair at any moment. In the flashing blue darkness of the club, with the ship docked and undergoing repairs by the starbase engineers, Jim remained free from that possibility. While Spock was confined to the bar, away from the crowds surrounding Jim, he could indulge in the sight from across the room.

Most of the senior staff were scattered around the club, enjoying the brief and unexpected post-mission reprieve from duty in a similar way. The bridge crew, minus Spock, clustered together as they danced, staying near each other even as Sulu and Scotty mixed with the Malosians native to the planet.

A glass clinked onto the bar next to Spock, followed by a refreshed-looking McCoy flopping onto a barstool. "Good evening, doctor," Spock greeted, raising his voice above the music.

The answering smile served as a testament to McCoy's relaxation. "Hi yourself, Spock," he replied easily. "Not one for dancing much, are you?"

"You are correct." The music swelled again, and Spock had to actively maintain his composure to prevent his displeasure from becoming visible.

"Come on, loosen up," McCoy urged, motioning for more bourbon. "Have a drink, pick up a girl—something. You're not supposed to stay uptight when we get breaks like this."

Spock shifted in his seat. "I wish to be fully rested when the repairs are completed, as that is the true purpose of a 'break.' Expending energy instead of engaging in restful activity for the next two point—"

"Fine, fine," McCoy conceded. "It's not logical, I get it. At least hang out with Jim or Uhura or someone while we're here, okay?"

"Jim has agreed to play chess tomorrow afternoon."

The doctor snorted and tipped some more bourbon down his throat, clearly relishing the drink despite his exasperation. "You two do that anyway. Do something different instead. Oh, Jesus—it's that crazy lady—" McCoy shoved the stool away from the bar and fled into the mass of bodies located nearest them.

Baffled by McCoy's exclamation, Spock turned and saw a Malosian woman approaching, her lips already forming into a pout. "Where's that friend of yours?" she asked once she was close to him. "I've tried to talk to him, but he always runs away."

"He is currently in a romantic relationship with our ship's communications officer," Spock said bluntly, hoping the woman would leave. She did not.

Her skin flushed, and the dark maroon wash clashed with the violet spots that stood out against her lavender skin. Malosians did not embarrass prettily. "Are you certain—"

"Yes."

The pout grew, and she started when a hand came down on her shoulder. "Sister, stop bothering him."

Spock looked behind her and saw another local of very different coloring. Instead of purple, his skin was a light, burnished gold, with gleaming spots that contrasted beautifully with his dark hair. Certainly attractive, but Spock did not desire that particular shade of gold.

The man rested his weight against the bar top and turned a smile to Spock once his sister left. "I apologize for her behavior towards yourself and your friend. My name is Druygen. You are Vulcan, yes?"

"Yes." Evidently Spock favored monosyllabic words around forward Malosians.

As soon as Spock confirmed his statement, Druygen put a more respectful distance between them. "I hope I haven't caused any intrusions. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Alcohol does not affect Vulcans." The excuse slipped out quickly, in case a pause to think of a reply beyond the standard might convince Spock to accept.

The man smiled charmingly, not seeming put off by the not-refusal. "And? It doesn't have to have an effect."

Spock paused and, as expected, saw no harm in accepting. "You may."

Druygen called for two glasses of the local favorite but noticed Spock's guilty glance towards the center of the room. "They're from your ship, right?"

"Along with myself, they are the senior crew." The drinks slid into place in front of them, and Druygen took a large gulp.

"I figured. Lanye doesn't go for the low-ranking ones." Druygen pointed towards a teal-speckled woman, currently occupied with wrapping herself around Jim as she kissed him.

A moment, and Spock recovered from the traitorous clenching in his throat and stomach. He turned back to the bar and gripped the ledge tightly, ignoring the inquisitive look Druygen sent his way, and took a matching gulp of the local drink.

Spock tasted chocolate and did not care.

As he moved from his first to his second drink, Druygen pointed out his friends across the room. All four had varying skin colors and shades, and Druygen was happy to give an explanation of each Malosian's unique coloring when Spock mentioned he belonged to the Sciences division of the ship. "Some species identify each other through scents or vocalizations, but we're a visual species. Having orange or turquoise or magenta children helped the early civilizations grow."

The words reached Spock's ears, but they were becoming difficult to filter through the overwhelming noise. Someone must have turned up the volume of the music, he concluded. His head hurt too.

"Are you okay?" Druygen asked, expression concerned. He slid off the barstool to support Spock as he swayed.

"I do not feel well," Spock said, shaking his head minutely in order to clear it. It didn't work. "I apologize, but I must leave now."

"Hang on, you really don't look well. How about I walk you back?" Druygen's hand slid over the skin of his wrist, the unintentional equivalent of a kiss on the cheek. The light contact was enough to broadcast the man's eager anticipation. Spock jerked backwards and stumbled off the stool in the process, finding his coordination unexpectedly compromised.

Druygen smiled and reached for his arm again. "There you go. You're staying in the main compound, right?"

"I must ask you to leave." Even through the off-balance sensation clouding his mind, Spock recognized the meaning of the anticipation and the ploy that likely accompanied it. "I require rest."

Through his blacking-out vision, Spock saw Jim approaching, wearing a politely forced smile as he interrupted Druygen's response. "Hey, I don't know if you know about Vulcans and telepathy, but stop touching Spock, okay?"

It seemed Jim had a talent for saving people, even outside of away missions. Spock shut his eyes in relief. "Thank you, captain. Druygen, I must still ask you to remove yourself from my vicinity."

"Spock?"

His eyes blinked open, and Druygen was gone. Jim stood in his place, blue eyes focused unbearably on his face. "You look seriously sick. You want to leave? Or I can get Bones if you want a doctor."

"No doctor," Spock managed to mumble. The drug—the only possible explanation for his current state—was taking more rapid effect, blocking out most of his sight and leaving him disoriented and nauseous.

The half-sentence visibly caught Jim off-guard. "I'll help you back in a minute, okay? Stay there." He walked towards the front part of the club and vanished into the manager's office. When he returned a minute later, he wore a light jacket and a pair of gloves.

Without the worry of accidental telepathic contact, Spock had no trouble with Jim physically assisting him out the door and into the quiet cool night, free from music and pushing crowds and drugged drinks. Though largely unfamiliar with alien customs, the meaning of the drug did not escape him, and he felt mildly pleased that it was Jim, not Druygen, escorting him to his room. Spock held no emotional attachment to the Malosian.

The ground suddenly lunged towards him, forcing Spock to stop moving. "Jim, I need to sit."

"Yeah, okay, here you go." Jim maneuvered him across the small space between the path and the building it ran along, working around Spock's buckled legs so he could sit against the wall. Spock's usual dislike of tactile or emotional behavior had disappeared enough that he did not hesitate to settle his head on Jim's shoulder, pressing into the juncture of his neck.

"Do the gloves make it fine to touch you?" Jim asked immediately, and at Spock's nod he pulled him into a loose embrace, just enough to keep him from falling over onto the ground.

A few minutes of breathing deeply and letting the tension in his muscles dissipate greatly diminished the sick feeling that had gathered at the bottom of Spock's stomach. He could hear the absence of music as a dull, high-pitched ringing in his ears that helped calm the headache.

Spock nuzzled Jim's neck, grateful for the human's slight warmth next to him in the chilly evening. "My room or yours?" he asked suddenly, dazed brown eyes flying open.

"What do you mean, Spock?" Jim inquired softly, holding him closer. "And seriously, stop talking like that. If you can, I mean. You must really be sick if you can't even manage full sentences. Hell, I usually get lost in your clauses, and reading Starfleet reports is part of my _job_."

Brow furrowed in careful concentration, Spock slowly enunciated, "I was under the impression that, when an individual administers a chemical substance effecting a state similar to my own, the individual escorts the other to a location suitable for engaging in sexual activities. As you have replaced Druygen in taking me to such a location, I assumed—"

The grip around his torso slackened, and when Spock looked up, Jim's eyes were wide with shock and betrayal. "You think I'm the type of person that would do that? That's fucking date rape, Spock. Shit, I thought you trusted me by now."

"I do, Jim," Spock insisted, resting his forehead against his captain's. Jim stilled but didn't push him away. "I thought you might—Perhaps I was mistaken. You were attracted to Lanye instead, were you not?"

"Who—you mean the bluish girl?" Jim shook his head. "Too clingy, wouldn't leave me alone, and I like green better anyways."

An awkward silence descended when Jim realized what he'd admitted. "Green?" Spock asked, eyes blinking wide. Despite the impairment of his bodily control, he still managed to summon a flush.

Eyes alternating between cheeks and ear tips, Jim swallowed hard. "Listen," he started, speaking with effort, "not that I'd say no any other time, but right now you're drugged and probably a little bit drunk, too. You wouldn't be saying this at any other time."

"I believe I misunderstood the cultural meaning attached to the drugs. I was under the impression that they are common." Spock's voice stayed soft in apology as he drifted to their earlier topic, attempting to ease the troubled expression on Jim's face.

"Not much, anymore." His voice was tight, eyes painfully honest. "Definitely not if they really care about you."

Spock let his eyes slip closed after the admission, resting comfortably close to Jim. Though most of the nausea and dizziness had disappeared, his vision hadn't fully returned, and several other bodily processes were similarly weakened. While searching for a familiar point of reference, his fingers grazed across Jim's chin and lips and paused, unwilling to leave.

A gentle gloved hand tugged his away reluctantly, and Spock found himself wishing the gloves gone as he laced their fingers together in an almost-intimacy. Jim's other hand went to Spock's hair, brushing lightly through it.

Soothed by the feeling of Jim's fingers in his hair, he barely had the energy to respond when Jim spoke. "Ready to walk?"

The accidental brush of lips against Spock's ear provoked a small shiver. Not particularly, but he would try. "Think so." He found speech had become difficult.

Rising from his sitting position was difficult as well. Once the cool air hit him full-force, Spock shuddered back into the press of Jim's arms.

"You're cold? Here, it'll shield you just as well if you're wearing it. I think. You said gloves are bad for you, right?" Somehow Jim managed to transfer the jacket to his body, coax Spock to put his arms through, and zip up the jacket.

Too far gone to even receive any thoughts through touch, Spock ran a hand over the satin-smooth inside of Jim's arm, tasting the soft skin with his fingers until Jim jerked his arm away.

"You're definitely drunk," Jim decided firmly, tugging Spock's arm over his shoulder to support him while they walked.

Spock hummed in agreement. "T'nash-veh kin-kur," he mumbled affectionately.

"Oh shit, is that Vulcan? Please tell me you can still speak Standard, because I only know a few words of Vulcan."

"Jim…"

A brief, understanding sigh. "I know, Spock. Though I'm not sure if that counts."

Spock shut his eyes against the harsh light as they approached the largest building within the compound. They went through one of the side entrances together, Spock half-stumbling, Jim struggling to scan his card and hold the door open. The hall was mercifully empty, and Jim began steering him in the wrong direction. Spock yanked on Jim's shirt, trying to tell him that his room was to the right, not the left, but the captain kept walking. "My room's closer," he said, proving his point by flashing his card in front of one of the doors closest to the entrance. The scanner read it and clicked the door open.

The colors and lighting inside were muted enough that they blurred together into a wash of gold in Spock's failing vision. He felt the room shudder as Jim kicked the door shut and flinched, reminded of the pounding music within the club. Several seconds later, he found himself lying face-up on the bed as Jim removed his boots and jacket.

"Jim," Spock repeated, and a gloved hand came up to brush across his forehead. Even without telepathic transference, the touch calmed him.

"What is it, Spock? Need anything?"

A sheet settled around him just like the blackness settling on his sight. The only color visible against the backdrop was the blue of Jim's eyes, dimming but still there. Through the oppressive haze in his vision Spock recognized that color, vaguely associating it with things like _shar-tor_ and _Iamyours_ and needing it to stay.

"Hafau, sanu," he muttered, keeping as firm a grip on Jim's clothes as he could so that Jim would understand.

More boots clunked to the floor, and that time it was Jim settling around Spock, keeping him tight in his arms. Spock pressed his head to Jim's chest, seeking out the slow thudding he remembered from his childhood, and fell asleep with the heartbeat like his mother's echoing in his ear.

The sleep was deeper than any Vulcan's for simple, chemical reasons; he slept far longer than usual but woke easily once recovered. Opening his eyes, Spock carefully ran a diagnostic on every sense and function previously affected by the drug. He felt mildly pleased to find his body returned to full motor capacity.

"Feeling any better?"

Spock sat up and saw Jim slouched in the single cushioned chair in the room, wearing fresh clothes and a grin. "I am," he replied. Pausing, he caught sight of Jim's wide eyes, dilated pupils, euphoric expression, and rapidly bouncing leg before his eyes fell to the mug clutched in Jim's hand.

He raised an eyebrow. "What quantity of caffeine have you consumed?"

"Six of these, I think," Jim answered, setting his cup down guiltily on the nightstand. "It's the local equivalent of coffee, but I'm not sure how much caffeine is in each. And I have a hypo that Bones said I'm supposed to give you, but you can get cleaned up first."

Spock bowed his head. "I will return shortly," he said, retreating quickly to the small attached bathroom. Conveniently, the starbase department in charge of managing the guest quarters supplied each room with standard toiletries, which stood clustered in the corner of the counter to make room for Jim's personal set. Taking advantage of the sonic shower seemed like too much of an imposition, so Spock settled for using the base-provided comb and toothbrush before stepping back out.

"I've been busy," Jim announced once he reappeared. "A security team brought Druygen in, and he confessed to giving you roofies, so they're holding him. Once you go down for identification, they'll charge him."

"You woke early to coordinate this?"

"No, I just didn't sleep," Jim admitted, suddenly unwilling to meet Spock's eyes. "I stayed with you for a while, and then I commed Bones because I was afraid the drug might kick up a problem with your system, since I doubt it was designed for Vulcans. He dropped off some hypos, I gave security instructions about Druygen, and I did some paperwork. I didn't want to go to sleep just in case you had a reaction."

Spock, attempting to ignore the emotions stirred up by Jim's care, glanced at the nightstand and raised an eyebrow. "You referred to multiple hyposprays, but I only see one."

"Bones said I should give most of them to you immediately, so you were asleep for those. This is just another rehydration and detox one, but he said you need it after you wake up. Are you more comfortable with doing it yourself, or…"

Stepping closer, Spock bent his neck at a slight angle to bare the injection point. "I would not object to assistance."

Jim brightened marginally as he picked up the hypo and carefully injected its contents into Spock's neck. "See, I swear Bones doesn't have to make these hurt so much. Don't you think?"

"Captain, I—"

Apparently Jim wasn't looking for an answer, because he kept talking over Spock's abortive comment. He seemed mildly anxious. "I mean, nobody other than me thinks they hurt, and I have a high tolerance for pain, you know that."

"Ca—"

"So it must hurt only me, because there's no way my whole crew is tougher than I am—"

"Jim." He justified his interruption with the faintly optimistic expression that appeared on Jim's face as Spock gently cradled the back of his head in one hand. For once, Jim stayed silent.

Spock pressed a kiss to the corner of Jim's mouth, resisting the urge to linger. Jim could interpret it as he liked. "Thank you for your aid last night," Spock murmured, voice low. "I do trust you implicitly."

A brief strangled sound that ended in Spock's name emerged from Jim's throat, and Jim pulled him back until their mouths met for real. The full contact broke Spock's meticulously controlled restraint so that he dragged Jim against him with one firm hand on his waist. The other remained at the back of Jim's head, stroking through the short golden hair that sent small jolts through his fingers.

He'd wanted that gold for _months_.

Jim wasn't as preoccupied with getting a desperate hold on him, though he certainly didn't protest when Spock's grip brought the length of their bodies together. His arms rested carelessly on Spock's shoulders as his tongue swept into the Vulcan's mouth, tasting him hot and quick. One of Jim's hands finally tracked up Spock's jaw to finger the point of an ear, provoking a quiet, unexpected moan.

Jim broke away abruptly, curling a hand around the back of Spock's neck to keep him close. "You're definitely back to normal, right? You aren't being overly affectionate now because of leftover drugs in your system?"

"No," Spock answered, lips grazing Jim's cheek as he spoke. "This is far more than mere affection, and I do not believe it can be simulated by a drug."

Emotion matching his own sparked through Spock everywhere his skin touched Jim's, dizzying in its intensity. Jim grinned and kissed Spock again.

When Spock noticed the limbs trembling against him several minutes later, he lifted an eyebrow for clarification. "Caffeine crash is coming soon, that's all," Jim explained, reluctantly disentangling himself from Spock. "It kept me awake enough to stay up all night, but now it's gone. I should get some sleep while I can."

"I require meditation after last night's experience, as well. I will return to my room."

"You can meditate here, if you want," Jim offered. He stepped away from Spock to grab some old clothes out of his bag. "I'll be asleep, so I shouldn't bother you. Then we can get dinner or something when we're both done."

The corner of Spock's mouth twitched involuntarily when Jim looked hopefully at him. "Your suggestion is quite agreeable. I will return here with my meditation mat."

Jim tossed his personal identification card to Spock. "Here, you can let yourself in when you get back. I'll probably be passed out by then."

His prediction was correct—when Spock opened the door to the room again three minutes later, meditation mat rolled up under one arm, he found Jim sleeping soundly on his stomach. Though Jim was burrowed deep into the blanket surrounding him, one arm hung over the side of the bed. Spock found himself unreasonably amused at the sight as he unrolled the mat on the floor next to the top of the bed and settled into his favored meditative pose.

Before he began the process of withdrawing into his mind, Spock reached out and brushed his first two fingers across the back of Jim's hand. Vague impressions of Jim's sleepy contentment filtered through the light touch, reminding him again that the threat from the night before was no longer a cause for worry.

Reassured, Spock closed his eyes.

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_T'nash-veh kin-kur_: My golden one

_shar-tor_: safety

_Hafau, sanu_: Stay, please

(These are straight from the Vulcan Language Dictionary, but they may be butchered.)


End file.
